


Dishonest Delusion

by analogtoothbrush



Category: Persona 5, Persona Series
Genre: Alternate Universe, Codependency, Drabble Collection, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Hanahaki Disease, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Cheating, Jealousy, M/M, One-Sided Attraction, Rare Pairings, Self Prompt, Spoilers, Stalking, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-30
Updated: 2018-09-02
Packaged: 2019-03-11 00:24:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13512891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/analogtoothbrush/pseuds/analogtoothbrush
Summary: But, what if the Moon shined on the deck's other Wild Card instead?





	1. Control

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because without control, what is there for him to have?

Mishima Yūki was simple to control.

All it took was the most scant modicum of affection. A secret smile or a gentle shoulder bump turned Mishima to putty in his hands; a meager head pat drove him into a frenzied state of eagerness and guaranteed immediate results. 

How desperate he had to be to come to _him_ of all people.

He would oblige him, though. Mishima had his uses, after all.

“Have you found him yet?”

“N-not yet,” the disembodied voice said. “Sorry, I’m still trying to get used to this…”

He pushed off the uncomfortable stone wall with crossed arms, taking a deliberate step towards the boy.

“Had I known how inept you’d be, I would’ve done this myself and been finished by now.”

The effect he had on Mishima was instantaneous. A ripple disrupted the Persona’s hovering form, giving him the added bonus of seeing the distress tinged determination twisting Mishima’s face.

“Wait! I can do it, I p—promise!”

The mecha suit Persona glowed with energy, its radar activating once more. The silence grew thicker and thicker with his impatience as the minutes ticked by, but, before he could provoke the boy any further, Mishima spoke with a happiness—a _relief_ —that told all.

“I found him! I-I found him! He’s in the fifth area of Aiyatsbus!”

A swell of satisfaction warmed his chest.

Just as giving his love was motivation, so too was taking it away.

“Finally,” he murmured, fingers twitching in anticipation.

Mishima hopped from the cockpit of his Persona, landing with a clumsiness belonging only to him.

“Did I—Did I do good?”

Lifting his visor both excited and unnerved Mishima. The way his gaze fluttered shyly from his face, to their shoes and back; and how teeth nibbled a chapped bottom lip was blatant indication.

The boy hesitated before repeating, “D-did I?”

The anxiety and fear bubbled up in Mishima. They were in his expectant yet pleading stare begging for validation. They threaded over tense shoulders and into fists clenched so tightly. They pooled in his stomach, creating an acrid mix he could barely choke down.  

He savored this moment most, and he let it build before deigning words proper.

“I suppose so.” A sigh punctuated the words. 

It was enough.

“O—oh.” His voice cracked and his head fell. “Sorry, Akechi. S-sorry I’m no good.”

He could hear the tears—could _taste_ the anguish—there.

His lips curled into a sneer.

How pathetic Mishima had to be to place so much stock in his words. That he would cry like a child when he refused to give him praise disgusted him—but it also left him tingling pleasantly all over.

His dark glove clashed heavily against Mishima’s pale skin, he noted idly, as he wiped moisture from the corner of sable eyes.  

“But you’ll do better next time,” he whispered. “Won’t you, Yūki?”

The sweet flush rising in his cheeks was all he needed.

.

See? Mishima Yūki was _so_ simple to control.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Been thinking about writing something revolving my favorite P5 boy, Mishima. Was gonna write a novelization/character study using his Confidant but this extremely rare pair would not leave me alone. Also didn’t want to commit to a plot, so I decided on prompt drabbles that may or may not be related sometimes.


	2. Jealous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The greater his jealousy over him, the greater his love for him.

“You’re looking really happy lately.”

His cheeks sting. He rubs one with the back of his hand.

“Really?”

“Yeah.” Akira smiles behind the rim of his mug. “I’m glad.”

He sips at his burning tea with trembling lips, gaze averting to follow the passersby outside the café.

“W-well, things have been going good. Especially with the Pha—”

He nearly spills his drink over his phone. The ringtone—a song about surprises, how fitting—causes eyes to stare at them from all directions. He wishes he had the opportunity to turn invisible in this place.

Akira is unperturbed. As always.

“Aren’t you going to answer?”

He scratches the back of his neck. The incoming call is declined before he can ponder on it more, and, when another call comes, he goes a step further and puts the thing on vibrate.

The grin on the other’s face makes him shift in his seat.

He clears his throat. “So, like I was saying, the Phansite is getting a lot of hits…”

.

In the darkened movie theater, their hands brush as they reach for popcorn.

He titters nervously and tries to pull away, but Akira seizes the chance with no hesitation. Long fingers entwine with his clammy ones.

“Are you enjoying the movie?”

He shudders as warm breath fans across his ear. He rubs away goosebumps as he glances around the half-empty theater.

The glare he shoots elicits a snicker from Akira, which only puts him out more.

Akira brings their connected hands closer to his coyly curved mouth. “Sorry.”

“Y-you—”

He nearly chokes on spit as his phone thrums violently against his hip. He dislodges their hands to use both in pulling the bothersome electronic from his too tight jeans’ pocket.

A quick glance to the preview message has a large lump growing in his throat.

“S-sorry,” he murmurs, settling back in his seat and rubbing his palms on his thighs.

The other’s expression is hidden by gleaming glasses lens.

“It’s fine.”

Akira doesn’t reach for his hand again.

.

The butterfly kiss Akira gives him lingers even after they part.

He licks away the remains of melon chapstick, staring up at the taller boy through his eyelashes.

“I had fun,” he says.

He wonders if the glow on Akira’s cheeks is from embarrassment or light from the setting sun.

“Me too.” A hand runs through curly hair. “Maybe we can do it again?”

He hums, squeezing the phone in his pocket. Though it has long since been put on silent, he knows that it’s still ringing. 

He can only _guess_ how many unheard voice messages and unread texts there are.

A chuckle slips from his mouth before he can stop it. He has no choice but to address the hopeful inquiry.

He shrugs one shoulder. “Maybe.”

A pause. An unhappy sigh.

“I’ll see you at school then?” The Phantom Thieves' leader takes a step into Leblanc’s entryway.

“Yeah.” He backs away, a smile stretching his cheeks. “G’night, Akira.”

“Good night... Mishima.”

.

Akechi hovers over him like predator on prey.

“You have _some_ nerve, Mishima! Coming back here after ignoring me like that!”

A fist slams against the wall next to his head.

He barely holds back a moan.

“Just because I cancel _one_ date, you run to him like some—some _tramp_!”

“B-but, Akechi,” he whimpers, “you wanted me t-to get information—”

Akechi pulls him close, so tight against his body that he can barely move. Teeth gnaw at the spot where his shoulder and neck meet.

“Not at the cost of you lapping up to him!” He sneers against his skin. “Besides, you didn’t even come back with anything. _Did_ you?”

Something hot coils heavy in his stomach.

“N-no.”

Akechi scoffs, “I figured as much.”

His fingers dig into Akechi’s back—into tense, trembling muscles—as he clings to him.

“Sorry, Akechi..."

“You _will_ be sorry when I’m through.” His eyes glitter with something dark.

Warmth spreads all throughout his body.

.

He switches off his phone when he reads over his messages, filing away the date for his and Akira’s next outing.

The grip around his waist and the weight on his back is hot and suffocating, but he relaxes against his Detective Prince with a secret smile.

Akechi can be so _cute_ when he’s jealous. Mishima wonders how far he will go for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What is this filth? Mishima playing both Akira and Akechi, basically. In simpler terms, my dream.
> 
> Drabbles are supposed to be short, sweet and easy. Then why, pray tell, does it take me over a month to write another one? And, when I do write, it looks more like a complete story than a drabble!? You know what, it's just Mishima/Akechi (and possibly other one-sided pairings) stuff! No word limits! Just pure indulgence!
> 
> But anyways, thank you all for the support of this series and sticking around for another chapter! I hope you stay for some more!


	3. Flowers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flowers for love. Flowers for death. Sometimes flowers are all that's needed to understand feelings heartfelt.

When Mishima coughs up a petal, he is ecstatic.

Because Mishima loves him _so_ much, his own body would rather he die than be without him.

And he treasures that dark petal Mishima tried secretly to discard. He cups it in his hands whenever he can, relishing in the pleasure that makes it nearly impossible for him to see, hear or think clearly.

Because it is proof his love is worth being earned.

“Love me until you choke on thorns, Mishima,” he murmurs, kissing wet eyelashes.

.

When Mishima hacks up a couple of petals, he is pissed.

Because it is not him that Mishima loves to death.

From the moment they met, he hated him. Him, and that brazen impudence that makes his body _roast_ with piping hot fury.

The way he walks with head held high with an assault charge blemishing his record. The way he speaks words brimmed with conceit in a tone calm and subdued. The way he wears plain clothes with gaudy glasses and frizzy hair yet somehow manages to pass as fashionable. The way he captivates Mishima despite already having someone he has given his heart to.

The way his love is worthy while his is not.

“They look so happy,” Mishima says. “I wanna be like that with...someone. One day.”

“You won’t.”

Not with him. _Never_ with him.

.

When Mishima throws up a handful of petals, he gags swallowing down his own.

Because time is running out for them both.

But he is not like them. Not like his mother, Mishima nor the rest of the world, willing to wilt away while their hearts beat for those they can never have.

“You’re mine, Mishima.”

He seals their lips, muffling any hesitation. He sucks on his tongue, claiming any confusion. He pulls back slowly, taking with him any lingering doubts.

“Akechi…?”

“Mine. You’re _mine_.”

He will not let Mishima leave this world loving anyone but him, and he will not leave this world until he is the only one Mishima loves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hanahaki disease. A pinnacle of tragedy. Never thought I would write one of these. But I thought my sweet, angsty boys would be perfect for it. And more Jealous!Akechi because I can't help myself.
> 
> I might start taking prompts for this series alongside just writing whatever I want for these two. If you'd like, you can leave suggestions in the comments. I'll do my best to whip up something we all can enjoy.


	4. Visit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All it takes is one visit.

He pressed his face into his pillow, smothering himself, until his huffs fanned hotly against his own cheeks.

The sheets were freshly laundered, washed in expensive detergents and fabric softeners, but just a tiny bit of his natural scent still clung to his blankets.

Sweat and cinnamon. Tangy, but it suited him somehow.

With a shuddering sigh, he pushed himself from the bed, smoothing out the wrinkles he made as he went.

Gōrō-kun liked his things nice and tidy. _Perfect_.

Just like he was.

And just as the numerous certificates, medals and articles lining his wall reaffirmed.

He made a noise of awe, eyes widening.

Because _holy crap_ there were so many, but, more importantly, because _his_ face was on Gōrō-kun’s wall. His bruised and ugly face in the corner of a newspaper column, but his face nonetheless. Framed on _Gōrō-kun’s_ bedroom wall.

“Rookie Detective Puts Ex-Olympic Gold Medalist Behind Bars.”

He remembered when it was published. Remembered the way people looked at him and how the kids in school avoided him. How his parents were more concerned about their reputation than his well being.

But, most of all, he remembered Gōrō-kun. He remembered the sweet dimple in his left cheek and how his eyes crinkled in the corners when he smiled at his battered form. He remembered the warmth of his palm, patting and ruffling his greasy hair. And he remembered his smooth voice praising him for his bravery and inviting him over for coffee whenever he was free.

He remembered being so _loved_ in that single moment.

But there was no way he could get close to Gōrō-kun, despite his friendliness. He wasn’t very fun or very useful; he’d only drag Gōrō-kun down.

So all he had was this: visiting Gōrō-kun while he was away and stupidly hoping that being surrounded by Gōrō-kun’s air would give him some of that love indirectly.

 _Just a little bit longer_ , he thought. _Let me stay a little longer._

His plea fell on deaf ears.

A sharp _beep_ and a door opening followed by a voice filled his stomach with both acid and warmth.

“I _know_ it’s unlike me. I usually double check before I leave.”

_Oh god._

“Yes, yes, Niijima-san, I—” There was a pause. “Hold on a moment.”

He leaned against the bedroom wall, chancing a peek through the slightly ajar door despite his mind telling him otherwise.

He was rewarded and punished with the sight of Gōrō-kun.

His frame was illuminated by morning sunlight, casting an ethereal glow to his skin and hair. His usually amiable countenance was twisted with confusion, but despite that, he still looked as if the gods had hand-crafted him.

An angel. That’s what he looked like to him. That was all he could think.

“No, it’s just—I thought I left this window _open_ , not _closed_.”

His blood ran cold.

“Well, I like the smell of fresh air,” he chuckled. “You have a point, yes.”

How _stupid_ was he not to notice? Hell, the window being open was why he could come in in the first place. And, he had closed it behind him, like a complete idiot.

“But everyone knows who I am and where I live, Niijima-san. Only an idiot would break into my apartment, completely aware of such things.”

 _You don’t have to tell me twice, Gōrō-kun_ , he lamented.

“ _Fine_ , I’ll check. You’re such a worrywart, you know.”

Footsteps.

He pressed his back against the wall, eyes darting from corner to corner. He decided to slip under the bed, knowing how obvious it was but without another option. Prayer was what kept him going—because only some supernatural force would keep an ace detective from looking in the most cliché hiding spot.

But, again, his pleas were unheard. _Figures_.

All he knew was footsteps and an iron grip on his ankle dragging him from his safe place. He covered his eyes because _god he was disgusting._  He couldn’t look. He just couldn’t.

Gōrō-kun probably hated him and would take his insignificant picture off his wall in disgust. And he couldn’t blame him. And that hurt more than the possibility of being locked away forever.

"I’ll have to take a raincheck on lunch, unfortunately.” A low laugh as he dropped his thin ankle onto the polished wooden floor. “No, it’s nothing serious, I promise.”

He tried not to sniffle as he drew up into a tight ball, willing himself to fade from the world.

“I’ll see you when I get back.”

And then silence. And movement.

He was getting close to him. Closer than ever before. So close, he could smell the cologne and feel his body heat.

“I—I, uh, I’m s-sorry, Gō—I-I mean, Akechi-san! P-please, don’t—!”

“It’s about time you came to visit me.”

He peeked between his fingers.

Laughter. It filled the room.

“I was just about to come get you myself, you know.”

He felt his heart beating in his throat.

But, whether it was from that beaming smile or from the glinting cuffs dangling off his finger, Mishima wasn’t sure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The bed is always the first place to look.


	5. Real

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He wanted it to be real.

“You have to get up, or you’ll be late for work.”

His mouth closed sharply, teeth painfully clinking together. He watched, bemused, as Mishima fluttered around his room, pulling out clothing and gathering up manila folders.

“What are you doing?”

His voice sounded far off. Distant. Like cotton was in his ears.

Mishima paused, blinking absently in his direction, before a wide smile blossomed onto his face.

“I’m getting your clothes out for you, silly,” he chuckled, holding up two neckties. “Now, which one do you think looks better: the red or the blue?”

Was Mishima playing with him? Getting back at him for using him? Had Mishima cast Fear and Confusion on him when he had his back turned?

He searched Mishima’s face, looking for lies but never finding them. There was no malice, or anger. No expectation.

There was only . . . affection. Sweet, simple, honest affection.

“Gōrō?”

He flinched at the sound of his own name. Hearing it roll off his tongue with no hesitation or anguish. The intimacy of it made his heart hammer against his chest—he felt it was going to burst out and land on his lap at any moment.

Another flinch as Mishima sat next to him, neckties forgotten as he pressed a cool hand to his forehead.

His lips pursed. “You don’t have a fever, but you’re acting a little strange. Are you okay?”

All of it was wrong. Everything was _wrong_.

They were supposed to be fighting the Phantom Thieves at that moment. On the Ark. And, then, when they were done, they were going to deal with that man once and for all. Then, they would be free to do as they pleased.

But, as he looked into Mishima’s eyes, he wondered if that was all a dream.

A terrible fever dream from too many late nights at the precinct, or too much coffee and pancakes.

He had never met Shido. And he had never killed anyone—all of his cases were solved through hard work and his intellect. His mother was alive and well, and they had a pet. A canary named Yellow because he was terrible at choosing names—or so he was told. He got along grudgingly well with Kurusu but only at Mishima’s behest and his own wariness—he had to make sure Kurusu didn’t get any ideas about his Mishima. Mishima would laugh and kiss his cheek, telling him not to worry because Mishima was happily his and his alone.

Like it was supposed to be.

He wrapped his arms around the shorter one, pulling him close and hugging him tight.

Burying his nose into his hair, he whispered, “I want this to be real. Can it be real? Please?”

But, Mishima didn’t answer him.

Because Mishima was cold, limp and heavy.

And _that_ was real.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one can be loosely related to the very first drabble.
> 
> I might write more for these two one day, but I'm gonna leave it at this for now. There is still a distinct lack of Mishima stories in general on this site, so I may eventually get around to that novelization/character study of Mishima's Confidant story line. Who knows? At any rate, thank you all for the sweet comments and attention you gave this short drabble series!


End file.
